Saturday, December 31, 2005

When God was learning to draw the human faceI think he may have made a few like thesethat now look up at us through museum glassa few miles north of where they sleptfor six thousand years, a necropolis near Varna.With golden staves and ornaments around themthey lay among human bodies but had none.Gods themselves, or soldiers lost abroad---we don’t know who they are.

The gold buttons which are their curious eyes,the old clay which is their wrinkled skin,seem to have been worked by the same free handthat drew Adam for the Jews about that time.It is moving, that the eyes are still questioningand no sadder than they are, time being what it is---as though they saw nothing tragic in the faceslooking down through glass into theirs.Only clay and gold, they seem to say,passing through one condition on its way to the next.

There are many families in which nobody writes poems,but once it starts up it's hard to quarantine.Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.

My sister has tackled oral prose with some success.but her entire written opus consists of postcards fromvacationswhose text is only the same promise every year:when she gets back, she'll haveso muchmuchmuch to tell.

Friday, December 23, 2005

I write poems far a stranger who will be born in some distant country hundreds of years from now. – Mary Oliver

Nobody here likes a wet dog.
No one wants anything to do with a dog
that is wet from being out in the rain
or retrieving a stick from a lake.
Look how she wanders around the crowded pub tonight
going from one person to another
hoping for a pat on the head, a rub behind the ears,
something that could be given with one hand
without even wrinkling the conversation.

But everyone pushes her away,
some with a knee, others with the sole of a boot.
Even the children, who don’t realize she is wet
until they go to pet her,
push her away
then wipe their hands on their clothes.
And whenever she heads toward me,
I show her my palm, and she turns aside.

O stranger of the future!
O inconceivable being!
whatever the shape of your house,
no matter how strange and colorless the clothes you
may wear,
I bet nobody there likes a wet dog either.
I bet everybody in your pub
even the children, pushes her away.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

As you set out for Ithakahope your road is a long one,full of adventure, full of discovery.Laistrygonians, Cyclops,angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:you’ll never find things like that on your wayas long as you keep your thoughts raised high,as long as a rare excitementstirs your spirit and your body.Laistrygonians, Cyclops,wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter themunless you bring them along inside your body.Laistrygonians, Cyclops,wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter themunless you bring them along inside your soul,unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope the voyage is a long one.May there be many summer mornings when,with what pleasure, what joy,you come into harbors seen for the first time;may you stop at Phoenician trading stationsto buy fine things,mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,sensual perfume of every kind—as many sensual perfumes as you can;and may you visit many Egyptian citiesto gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.Arriving there is what you are destined for.But do not hurry the journey at all.Better if it lasts for years,so you are old by the time you reach the island,wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.Without her you would not have set out.She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

When you set out for IthakaAsk that your way be long,Full of adventure, full of instruction.

The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,Angry Poseidon -- do not fear them;Such as these you will never findAs long as your thought is lofty,As long as a rare emotionTouch your spirit and your body.The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,Angry Poseidon -- you will not meet themUnless you carry them in your soul,Unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long,At many a summer dawn to enter --With what gratitude, what joy!Ports seen for the first time;To stop at Phoenician trading centers,And to buy good merchandise.Mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,And sensuous perfumes of every kind.Buy as many sensuous perfumes as you can,Visit many Egyptian citiesTo learn and learn from those who have knowledge.

Always keep Ithaka fixed in your mind;Your arrival there is what you are destined for.But do not in the least hurry the journey.Better that it last for yearsSo that when you reach the island you are old,Rich with all that you have gained on the way,Not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.

Ithaka has given you the splendid voyage.Without her you would never have set out,But she has nothing more to give you.And if you find her poor,Ithaka has not deceived you.So wise have you become, of such experience,That already you will have understoodWhat these Ithakas mean.

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,pray that the road is long,full of adventure, full of knowledge.The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:You will never find such as these on your path,if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fineemotion touches your spirit and your body.The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,if you do not carry them within your soul,if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.That the summer mornings are many, when,with such pleasure, with such joyyou will enter ports seen for the first time;stop at Phoenician markets,and purchase fine merchandise,mother-of-pearl and coral, amber, and ebony,and sensual perfumes of all kinds,as many sensual perfumes as you can;visit many Egyptian cities,to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca on your mind.To arrive there is your ultimate goal.But do not hurry the voyage at all.It is better to let it last for many years;and to anchor at he island when you are old,rich with all you have gained on the way,not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.Without her you would have never set out on the road.She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.Wise as you have become, with so much experience,you must already have undestood what these Ithacas mean.

When you start on your journey to Ithaca,then pray that the road is long,full of adventure, full of knowledge.Do not fear the Lestrygoniansand the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon.You will never meet such as these on your path,if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fineemotion touches your body and your spirit.You will never meet the Lestrygonians,the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon,if you do not carry them within your soul,if your soul does not raise them up before you.

Then pray that the road is long.That the summer mornings are many,that you will enter ports seen for the first timewith such pleasure, with such joy!Stop at Phoenician markets,and purchase fine merchandise,mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;visit hosts of Egyptian cities,to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.

Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.To arrive there is your ultimate goal.But do not hurry the voyage at all.It is better to let it last for long years;and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,rich with all that you have gained on the way,not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.Without her you would never have taken the road.But she has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.

Friday, December 16, 2005

.
Come down Canyon Creek trail on a summer afternoon
that one place where the valley floor opens out. You will see
the white butterflies. Because of the way shadows
come off those vertical rocks in the west, there are
shafts of sunlight hitting the river and a deep
long purple gorge straight ahead. Put down your pack.

Above, air sighs the pines. It was this way
when Rome was clanging, when Troy was being built,
when campfires lighted caves. The white butterflies dance
by the thousands in the still sunshine. Suddenly, anything
could happen to you. Your soul pulls toward the canyon
and then shines back through the white wings to be you again.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

.Touching your goodness, I am like a manWho turns a letter over in his handAnd you might think this was because the handWas unfamiliar but, truth is, the manHas never had a letter from anyone;and now he is both afraid of what it meansAnd ashamed because he has no other meansTo find out what it says than to ask someone.

His uncle could have left the farm to him,Or his parents died before he sent them word,Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.What would you call his feeling for the wordsThat keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?

Thursday, December 08, 2005

.If you don’t know the kind of person I amand I don’t know the kind of person you area pattern that others made may prevail in the worldand following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,a shrug that lets the fragile sequence breaksending with shouts the horrible errors of childhoodstorming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,I call it cruel and maybe the root of all crueltyto know what occurs but not to recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,a remote important region in all who talk:though we could fool each other, we should consider—lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;the signals we give ¬¬- yes or no, or maybe¬¬—should be clear; the darkness around us is deep.

Monday, December 05, 2005

.The old lady leaves the old farm house.November grayDry cloudsCold brownsWalks to the white mail box.Typical white farmers mail box standingalong the empty road in brown November.Thinking of her favorite brother who left Kingsville for South Africa.Sixty years a gone. Sixty years without.The minding love.She had received a letter saying her brother had diedhis children were sending him back to back to Kingsville to be buried with those he left.The grave prepared, the minister ready.Opening the mailbox there was a shoe box.Opening the mailbox there was a shoe box.

The minister, the caretaker, the old ladystand over the open grave.Their words surrounding the small box.Home again!

Sunday, December 04, 2005

.I sit in one of the divesOn Fifty-Second StreetUncertain and afraidAs the clever hopes expireOf a low dishonest decade:Waves of anger and fearCirculate over the brightAnd darkened lands of the earth,Obsessing our private lives;The unmentionable odour of deathOffends the September night.

Accurate scholarship canUnearth the whole offenseFrom Luther until nowThat has driven a culture mad,Find what occurred at Linz,What huge imago madeA psychopathic god:I and the public knowWhat all schoolchildren learn,Those to whom evil is doneDo evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knewAll that a speech can sayAbout Democracy,And what dictators do,The elderly rubbish they talkTo an apathetic grave;Analysed all in his book,The enlightenment driven away,The habit-forming pain,Mismanagement and grief:We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral airWhere blind skyscrapers useTheir full height to proclaimThe strength of Collective Man,Each language pours its vainCompetitive excuse:But who can live for longIn an euphoric dream;Out of the mirror they stare,Imperialism’s faceAnd the international wrong.

Faces along the barCling to their average day:The lights must never go out,The music must always play,All the conventions conspireTo make this fort assumeThe furniture of home;Lest we should see where we are,Lost in a haunted wood,Children afraid of the nightWho have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trashImportant Persons shoutIs not so crude as our wish:What mad Nijinsky wrote About DiaghilevIs true of the normal heart;For the error bred in the boneOf each woman and each manCraves what it cannot have, Not universal loveBut to be loved alone.

From the conservative darkInto the ethical lifeThe dense commuters come,Repeating their morning vow,“I will be true to the wife,I’ll concentrate more on by work,”And helpless governors wakeTo resume their compulsory game:Who can release them now,Who can reach the deaf,Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voiceTo undo the folded lie,The romantic lie in the brainOf the sensual man-in-the-streetAnd the lie of AuthorityWhose buildings grope the sky:There is no such thing as the StateAnd no one exists alone;Hunger allows no choiceTo the citizen or the police;We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the nightOur world in stupor lies;Yet, dotted everywhere,Ironic points of lightFlash out wherever the JustExchange their messages;May I, composed like themOf Eros and of dust,Beleaguered by the sameNegation and despair,Show an affirming flame.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

.Be not afeard,the Isle is full of noises,Sounds and sweet airsthat give delight and hurt not.Sometimes a thousand twangling instrumentsWill hum about mine ears,and sometimevoicesThat if I then had wak’d after long sleepWill make me sleep again; and then in dreamingThe clouds methought would open and show such richesReady to drop upon me, that when I wak’dI cried to dream again.

Friday, December 02, 2005

.“Remember your father, the wolf,”The lecturer says.“Chewed by its appetite, it chews its prey.It howls with fear in the woods,Beyond blame or praise.Drop food in your children’s cagesWhen they follow commands,And they’ll all be good.”

During the lecture, it was later learned,Crows were observed tumbling in loopsOver North Dakota.Two dogs, at leisure on a beach in France,Ran a race to a rock.In the Indian Ocean,Thirty leagues down,Men in a diving bell heard the anthemOf a school of whales—an hour’s concertSung to some eager listeners miles away.

Remember your old cousins,Those fish who crawled from the seaWhen the seafood was plentifulAnd the land bare.Think of the voices they strained to hearAs they chose to hobble on tender finsPainfully in the sun’s glare.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

.Almost twenty yearsSince you put on your one good dressAnd lay down in the shale hills of Pennsylvania.What you expected from life was nothing much,And it cameAnd so it was.In California I mourned and then forgot,Though sometimes, in a mirror,I saw someone walk from the weeds,Stepping from a shine of water,And it was you, shining.

Tonight I brought my bundle of yearsTo an empty house.When I opened it, a boy walked out,Drinking cold water, watching theMoon rise slim and shining over your house.Whatever it was I wantedMust have come and gone.

Twenty years, grandmother.Here I standIn the poverty of my feet,And I know what you’d do:You’d enter your black shawl,Step back into the shadows of your hair.And that’s no help tonightAll I can think of is your house—The pump at the sinkSpilling a trough of clearCold water from the well—And you, old love,Sleeping in your dark dressLike a hard, white root.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

.
We sit at the top of the Pyramid of the Magician
Our last day in Uxmal, afraid
Of the sheer steps and the ranks of the rain gods,
The rows of Chacmuls in stone with their high-flung, fanfaring noses.
Having guided ourselves this far, we look
At the ruined ball court and, beyond, the iguanas basking
In the cracked fretwork of the Palace of the Governor,
The stone jaguars mating in the plaza
By the broken phallus, and, with its jammed perspective, the quadrangle
Where four classes of priests took charge of the rain.

Not even the Governors were allowed this high to lord it
Over the land from the mouth of the temple
Whose intricate facade is a Chacmul’s face
Behind our backs. Not daring to ask for a change in the deep sky,
We wait for our lives to topple
Like the rest, though our hands hold us together, balancing
Our love against the weight of evidence
That has caved in one whole side of this pyramid.

We are masters of nothing we survey,
But what the Magician did from here—chant with his arms outstretched
Over a dying city or reach halfway to the clouds sailing aloof
Over the maize fields—is ours to try, since we believe in magic,
Believe we can climb to it slowly, being frightened,
That it can break suddenly out of stone or out of the dry air.
As priest and priestess of ourselves, before praying for rain,
We weep to show it how.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Come not near my songsYou who are not my loverLest from out that ambushLeaps my heart apon you!

When my songs are glowingAs an almond thicketWith the bloom apon it,Lies my heart in ambushAll amid my singing;Come not near my songs,You who are not my lover!

Do not hear my songsYou who are not my lover!Over-sweet the heart is,Where my love has bruised it,Breath you not that fragrance,You who are not my lover.Do not stoop above my song,With its languor on you,Lest from out my singingLeaps my heart apon you!

Monday, November 28, 2005

.Everything you have heard about meis true, or true enough.You shouldn’t thinkI’d change my story now.A stubborn, willful little girlcomes sneakingaround my house, peeringin all the windows. She’s disobeyedher parents, who knewwhere the witch lived. “If you go,you’re not our daughter anymore.”That’s what they told her. I havemy ways of knowing. All paleand trembly then, she knocks at my door.“Why are you so pale?’I ask, although of courseI know that too.She'd seen what she’d seen—a green man on the stairs, and the other one,the red one, and then the devil himselfwith his head on fire, which was me,the witch in her true ornament, as I liketo put it. Oh, she’d seen what she neededto send her running home,but she walked right in, which is the partI never understand completely. Maybeshe believed, just then,that she was no one’s daughter anymore,and had to take her chances, poor thing,inside with me. “So you’ve cometo brighten up my house,”I said, and changed her into a log.It was an easy trick, and gave me little Pleasure. But I’d been waitingall day. I was cold, and even thatsmall fire was bright, and warm enough.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

In a poem, one line may hide another line,As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.That is, if you are waiting to crossThe tracks, wait to do it for one moment atLeast after the first train is gone. And so when you readWait until you have read the next line---Then it is safe to go on reading.In a family one sister may conceal another,So, when you are courting, it’s best to have them all in viewOtherwise in coming to find one you may love another.One father or one brother may hide the man,If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love.So always standing in front of something the otherAs words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas.One wish may hide another. And one person’s reputation may hideThe reputation of another. One dog may conceal anotherOn a lawn, so if you escape the first one you’re not necessarily safe;One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia Antica one tombMay hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another,One small complaint may hide a great one.One injustice may hide another---one Colonial may hide another,One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath may hide another bathAs when, after bathing, one walks out into the rainOne idea may hide another: Life is simpleHide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude SteinOne sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratoryOne invention may hide another invention,One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows.One dark red, one blue, or one purple---this is a paintingBy someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass,These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twinMay hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetricianGazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, butOne life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here.A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hidesHer own vivacious daughter in turn. They are inA railway station and the daughter is holding a bagBigger than her mother’s bag and successfully hides it.In offering to pick up the daughter’s bag one finds oneself confronted by the mother’sAnd has to carry that one too. So one hitchhikerMay deliberately hide another and one cup of coffeeAnother, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love or the same loveAs when “I love you” suddenly rings false and one discoversThe better love lingering behind, as when “I’m full of doubts”Hides “I’m certain about something and it is that”And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the Garden of EdenAdam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve.Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem.When you come to something, stop to let it passSo you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,Internal tracks pose dangers, too; one memoryCertainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading A Sentimental Journey look aroundWhen you have finished, for Tristam Shandy, to seeIf it is standing there, it should be, strongerAnd more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria MaggioreMay be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalkMay hide another, as when you’re asleep there, andOne song hide another song: for example “Stardust”Hide “What Have They Done to the Rain?” or vice versa. A pounding upstairsHide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the foot of a treeWith one and when you get up to leave there is anotherWhom you’d have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher,One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one manMay hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be importantTo have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.

Friday, November 25, 2005

.Today the snow is driftingon Belle Isle, and the ducksare searching for some openingto the filthy waters of the their river.On Grand River Avenue, which is notin Venice but in Detroit, Michigan,the traffic has slowed to a standstilland yet a sober man has hit a parked carand swears to the police he wasnot guilty. The bright squads of childrenon their way to school howlat the foolishness of the worldthey will try not to inherit.Seen from inside a window,even a filthy one like thoseat Automotive Supply Company, the snow,which has been falling for hours,is more beautiful than even the springgrass which once unfurled herebefore the invention of steel and fire,for spring grass is what the earth sangin answer to the new sun, tomelting snow, and the dark rainof spring nights. But snow is nothing.It has no melody of form, itis as though the tears of all the lost souls rose to heavenand were finally heard and blessedwith substance and the power of flightand, given their choice, chose then to return to earth, to lay theirgreat pale cheek against the burningcheek of earth and say, “There, there, child.”

Thursday, November 24, 2005

The word Faith means when someone seesA dew-drop or a floating leaf, and knowsThat they are, because they have to be.And even if you dreamed, or closed your eyesAnd wished, the world would still be what it was,And the leaf would still be carried down the river.

It means that when someone’s foot is hurt By a sharp rock, he also knows that rocksAre here so they can hurt our feet.Look, see the long shadow cast by the trees;And flowers and people throw shadows on the earth:What has no shadow has no strength to live.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

.Trying to protect his students' innocencehe told them the Ice Age, was really justthe Chilly Age, a period of a million yearswhen everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,named after the long driveways of the time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing morethan an outbreak of questions such as“How far is it from here to Madrid”?

The War of the roses took place in a garden,and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atomon Japan.

The children would leave his classroomfor the playground to torment the weakand the smart,mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked homepast flower beds and white picket fences,wondering if they would believe that soldiersin the Boer War told long, rambling storiesdesigned to make the enemy nod off.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

.On a golden evening,or in a quietness whose symbolmight be a golden evening,a man sets up his bookson the waiting shelves,feeling the parchment and leather and clothand the satisfaction given bythe anticipation of a habitand the establishment of order.Stevenson and that other Scotsman, Andrew Lang,will here pick up again, in a magic way,the leisurely conversation broken offby oceans and by death,and Alfonso Reys surely will be pleasedto share space close to Virgil.(To arrange a Library is to practice,in a quiet and modest way,the art of criticism.)The man, who is blind,knows that he can no longer readthe handsome volumes he handlesand that they will not help him writethe book which in the end might justify him,but on this evening that perhaps is goldenhe smiles at his strange fateand feels that special happinesswhich comes from things we know and love.

Monday, November 21, 2005

What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river?Spreading ruin and scattering ban,Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river;The limpid water turbidly ran,And the broken lilies a-dying lay,And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan While turbidly flow'd the river;And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can,With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river!),Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,Steadily from the outside ring,And notch'd the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river.

'This is the way,’ laugh'd the great god Pan (Laughed while he sat by the river)‘The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.’Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and painFor the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Friday, November 18, 2005

In March I dreamed of mud,sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table,rainbow slicks of mud under the throne.In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun.Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchenfor wafts of silt and ale,cinnamon and river bottom,tender scallion and sour underlog.

At night I cannot sleep.I am listening for the dribble of mudclimbing the stairs to our bedroomas if a child in a wet bathing suit ranup them in the dark.

Last night I said, “Face it, you’re boredHow many times can you live overwith the same excitementthat moment when the princess leansinto the well, her face a petalfalling to the surface of the wateras you rise like a bubble to her lips,the golden ball bursting from your mouth?”Remember how she hurled you against the wall,your body cracking open,skin shriveling to the bone,the green pod of your heart splitting in two,and her face imprinted with every momentof your transformation?

I no longer tremble.

Night after night I lie beside her.“Why is your forehead so cool and damp?” she asks.Her breasts are soft and dry as flour.The hand that brushes my head is feverish.At her touch I long for wet leaves,the slap of water against rocks.

“What are you thinking of?” she asks.How can I tell herI am thinking of the green skinshoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk? Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hiltof my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul?Someday I will drag her by her hairto the river—and what? Drown her?Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet?But there’s no more violence in herthan in a fence or a gate.

“What are you thinking of? she whispers.I am staring into the garden.I am watching the moonwind its trail of golden slime around the oak,over the stone basin of the fountain.How can I tell herI am thinking that transformations are not forever?

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

There are wolves in a dark wood runningon the track of deer. The crusted snowcrunches under their pawsand flashing hooves. The windruffles their fur—rubs dark their tawny haunches.Their tongues hang down red-flagging the moon.And in the sky an owl makes quiet rings.

When the hunt is doneshall I lielashing the hard, white snow crust with my hooves,lick up the pools that sink in the frosty snow in red circles,or float in the skycomposing the whole dark pictureunder my wings?

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Waves coming up: high waves coming up against the rocks,Breaking, shi ! shi !When the moon is high with its light upon the waters:Spring tide; tide flowing to the grass,Breaking, shi ! shi !In its rough waters, the young girls bathe.Hear the sound they make with their hands as they play!

Monday, November 14, 2005

Season late, day late, sun just down, and the skyCold gunmetal but with a wash of live rose, and she,From water the color of sky except whereHer motion has fractured it to shivering splinters of silver,Rises. Stands on the raw grass. AgainstThe new-curdling night of spruces, nakednessGlimmers and, at bosom and flank, dripsWith fluent silver. The man,

Some dozen strokes out, but now hangingMotionless in the gunmetal water, feetCold with the coldness of depth, allHistory dissolving from him, isNothing but an eye. Is an eye only. Sees

The body that is marked by his use, and Time’s,Rise, and in the abrupt and unsustaining element of air,Sway, lean, grapple the pond-bank. SeesHow, with that posture of female awkwardness that is,And is the stab of, suddenly perceived grace, breasts bulge down in The pure curve of their weight and buttocksMoon up and, in that swelling unity,Are silver, and glimmer. Then

The body is erect, she is herself, whateverSelf she may be, and with an end of the towel grasped in each hand,Slowly draws it back and forth across back and buttocks, butWith face lifted toward the high sky, whereThe over-wash of rose color now fails. Fails, though no starYet throbs there. The towel, forgotten,Does not move now. The gazeRemains fixed on the sky. The body,

Profiled against the darkness of spruces, seemsTo draw to itself, and condense in its whiteness what lightIn the sky yet lingers or, fromThe metallic and abstract severity of water, lifts. The body,With the towel now trailing loose from one hand, isA white stalk from which the face flowers gravely toward the high sky.This moment is non-sequential and absolute, and admitsOf no definition, for itSubsumes all other, and sequential, moments, by whichDefinition might be possible. The woman,

Face yet raised, wraps,With a motion as though standing in sleep,

The towel about her body, under the breasts, andHolding it there, hieratic as lost Egypt and erect,Moves up the path that, stair-steep, windsInto the clamber and tangle of growth. BeyondThe lattice of dusk-dripping leaves, whitenessDimly glimmers, goes. Glimmers and is gone, and the man,

Suspended in his darkling medium, staresUpward where, though not visible, he knowsShe moves, and in his heart he cries out that if onlyHe had such strength, he would put his hand forthAnd maintain it over her to guard, in allHer out-goings and in-comings, from whateverInclemency of sky or slur of the world’s weatherMight ever be. In his heartHe cries out. Above

Height of the spruce-night and heave of the far mountain, he seesThe first star pulse forth. It gleams there.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

The word Faith means when someone seesA dew-drop or a floating leaf, and knowsThat they are, because they have to be.And even if you dreamed, or closed your eyesAnd wished, the world would still be what it was,And the leaf would still be carried down the river.

It means that when someone’s foot is hurt By a sharp rock, he also knows that rocksAre here so they can hurt our feet.Look, see the long shadow cast by the trees;And flowers and people throw shadows on the earth:What has no shadow has no strength to live.

Friday, November 11, 2005

I can tell by the way the trees beat, afterso many dull days, on my worried windowpanesthat a storm is coming,and I hear the far-off fields say thingsI can’t bear without a friend,I can’t love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives onacross the woods and across time,and the world looks as if it had no age:the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!What fights with us is so great!If only we would let ourselves be dominatedas things do by some immense storm,we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,and the triumph itself makes us small.What is extraordinary and eternaldoes not want to be bent by us.I mean the Angel who appearedto the wrestlers of the Old Testament:when the wrestlers’ sinewsgrew long like metal strings, like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel(who often simply declined the fight)went away proud and strengthenedand great from that harsh hand,that kneaded him as if to change his shape.Winning does not tempt that man.This is how he grows; by being defeated, decisively,by constantly greater beings.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Break two eggsinto a large bowl,preferably a blue one.Look down and seethem staring back at you,their innocent embrace affirmingwhat must happen.Now add salt (kosher salt is best,being saltiest),pepper, parsley (fresh,snipped with scissors) toremind you of the woods you’d liketo be in, a few flakesof oregano, and a backhand pinch of garlic powder,which tells you you are cooking.Sometimes onions.Tilt the bowl to favor gravity,and, with a fork, whipit all into a froth, a midgetecosystem of delight.You may here wish to rememberthe perfect symmetry of childhoodmornings. Setyour dented, seasoned frying panwith a light clangover a high flame.Wait until the pan is shiningwith dark heat, then lower the flame.Pour your brew into the pan, and listen.The hiss is a reward.Jog the pan in brief, determined arcsabove the flame to send your bubbly massin waves against the hot wall of the pan.When little’s left to riffle outward fromthe center, strike the pan at the handle’s basewith the butt end of a spatula or knifeto loosen what you’ve made from clinging metal.Fold the settled, slightly moistened roundness gentlyover, once from each side toward the middle, to createa lozenge-of egg.Flop it freely from the canted pan ontoa white plate.Now you’ve finished.If you’ve cooked it for your sweetie—she having just arrived and there being nothingin the house—you might want to please herfurther by tossing on some parsley sprigs for color.If it’s for yourself, forgosuch niceties, which only measure solitude.Pick it up with both hands and begin.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

The day breaks— the first rays of the rising Sun, stretching her arms.Daylight breaking, as the Sun rises to her feet.Sun rising, scattering the darkness; lighting up the land . . .With disc shining, bringing daylight, as the birds whistle and call . . .People are moving about, talking, feeling the warmth.Burning through the Gorge, she rises, walking westwards,Wearing her waist-band of human hair.She shines on the blossoming coolibah tree, with its sprawling roots,Its shady branches spreading . . .

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Here they stand: gardens and temples and the
reason for temples;
exact music and exact words;
the sixty-four hexagrams;
ceremonies, which are the only wisdom
that the Firmament accords to men;
the conduct of that emperor
whose perfect rule was reflected in the world,
which mirrored him,
so that rivers held their banks
and fields gave up their fruit;
the wounded unicorn that’s glimpsed again,
marking an era’s close;
the secret and eternal laws;
the harmony of the world.
These things or their memory are here in books
that I watch over in my tower.

On small shaggy horses,
the Mongols swept down from the North
destroying the armies
ordered by the Son of Heaven to punish their
desecration's.
They cut throats and sent up pyramids of fire,
slaughtering the wicked and the just,
slaughtering the slave chained to his master’s
door,
using the women and casting them off.
And on the South they rode,
innocent as animals of prey,
cruel as knives.
In the faltering dawn
my father’s father saved the books.
Here they are in this tower where I lie
calling back days that belonged to others,
distant days, the days of the past.

In my eyes there are no days. The shelves
stand very high, beyond the reach of my years,
and leagues of dust and sleep surround the
tower.
Why go on deluding myself?
The truth is that I never learned to read,
but it comforts me to think
that what’s imaginary and what’s past are the
same.
to a man whose life is nearly over,
who looks out from his tower on what once was
city
and now turns back to wilderness.
Who can keep me from dreaming that there was a
time
when I deciphered wisdom
and lettered characters with a careful hand?
My name is Hsiang. I am the keeper of the books—
these books which are perhaps the last,
for we know nothing of the Son of Heaven
or of the Empire’s fate.
Here on these high shelves they stand,
at the same time near and far,
secret and visible, like the stars.
Here they stand–––gardens, temples.

Monday, November 07, 2005

To be born famous, as your father’s son, Is a fate troublesome enough unless,Like Philip’s Alexander of Macedon, You can outdo him by superb excessOf greed and profligacy and wantonness.

To become famous, as a wonder child, Brings no less trouble, with whatever artYou toyed precociously, for Fame had smiled Malevolence at your birth.... Only MozartPlayed on, still smiling from his placid heart.

To become famous while a raw young man And lead Fame by the nose to a bitter end,As Caesar’s nephew did, Octavian, Styling himself Augustus, is to pretendPeace in the torments that such laurels lend.

To become famous in your middle years For merit not unblessed by accident—Encountering catcalls, missiles jeers and sneers From half your uncontrollable parliament—Is no bad fate, to a good sportsman sent.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Under the tall black sky you look out of your bodylit by a white flare of the time between usyour body with its touch its weight smelling of new woodas on the day the news of battle reached usfalls beside the endless riverflowing to the endless seawhose waves come to this shore a world away.

Your body of new wood your eyes alive barkbrown of treetrunksthe leaves and flowers of trees stars all caught in crowns of treesyour life gone down, broken into endless earthno longer a world away but under my feet and everywhereI look down at the one earth under me,through to you and all the fallenthe broken and their children born and unbornof the endless war.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Suddenly I remember the holes,Suddenly I think of a man with no entrances,no exits, the closed man, with feelers or clawsso sensitive that he can tellwhat rock is, or flesh, water, or flame.Where does everything go when it comes in?What should I do with the pure speech of cellswhere we find ourselves?The river flies, the dusk crawls into the ground,the streets get up and leave,the sun recklessly feeds our blood.We could be crouching on the branch, we could begnawing the brown feathers and thighs of a new animal,we could be plotting under the ice while others dream.But I want the infinite man who sleepsin my veins to rise, I want to hearthe thin buzzing that floats out of my chestlike an arm of locusts making terrible decisions.Sometimes I want to die because of this.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

My son has my father’s eyes,My mother’s hands,And my own mouth.There is no further need of me. Many thanks.The refrigerator is beginning to hum toward a long journey.An unknown dog sobs over the loss of a stranger.

I resign!

II

I paid my dues to so many funds.I am fully insured.Let the world care for me now;I am knotted and tied with it and all of them.Every change in my life will cost them cash.Every movement of mine will hurt them.My death will dispossess them.My voice passes with clouds.My hand, stretched out, has turned into paper. Yet another contract.I see the world through the yellow rosesSomeone has forgottenOn the table near my window.

III

Bankruptcy!I declare the whole world to be a womb.And as of this momentI appoint myself,Order myselfAt its mercy.Let it adopt me. Let it care for me.

I declare the President of the United States to be my father,The Chairman of the Soviet Union to have my power of attorney,The British Cabinet to be my family,And Mao Tse-tung to be my grandmother.

I resign!I declare the heavens to be God.They all together go ahead and do those thingsThat I never believed they would.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

The name of the author is the first to gofollowed obediently by the title, the plot,the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novelwhich suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbordecided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-byeand watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to rememberit is not poised on the tip of your tongue,not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological riverwhose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,well on your own way to oblivion where you will join thosewho have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the nightto look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.No wonder the moon in the window seems to have driftedout of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

I wonder, since we are both travelling out,If we may go together? Thank you.

You may be sure you will be aloneAnd private as though I were no one.God knows, I do not wish to increase your burden.Naturally, these airports, blinding cities,And foundry lights confuse you, make youMore solitary than the sight of one lost lampAcross a bare land promising life there—Someone over that field alone and perhapsWaiting for you. That used to be the way.

Feel perfectly free to choose howYou will be alone, since we are going together.Of course, I never move, I merely hold youIn my mind like a prayer. You are my wayOf praying, and I have chosen you out of hordesOf travellers to speed to silently, on my own.I will be with you, with your baffled angerAmong fuming cities, with your griefAt having lost dark fields and lamplight.It is my way of moving, of praying—

Oh, not to give you someone like me,That’s all over, impossible, I go nowhere;And besides, nothing is given absolutelyNothing and no one, only white sermons amongThe white of a billion bulbs. No,Sitting here behind my shutters at twilight,I am stretching over the blazing lanes,The dazed crowds jostled and razedBy light, only to join your mind and guide youGently, leading you, not, alas, to my own lampAcross the fields of the world, or to a cozy lastPrayer of lamplight blessing the fields of the air,But out into hordes of stars that move awayAs we move, and for which your travellingPrepares you to go out a little more boldly,All alone as I am alone.